


Samanantar

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Jodhaa Akbar AU fics [2]
Category: Jodhaa-Akbar (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Better in the long run, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: It is not the Emperor that Adham first meets after stabbing Ataga Khan, but the Empress. AU.





	Samanantar

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “parallel” in Hindi. Also, a special shout-out to the anon who let me know through Tumblr how much they enjoyed my JA work! If you’re reading this, thank you so much. I’m really glad there’s an audience for my work, even if it’s just like three people. 
> 
> I’m really curious to know what in particular you like about my work-- you can leave a comment here on AO3, even without an account. If you don’t, that’s fine, just getting your ask made my week, but it would mean a lot to get your input.

It is not the Emperor that Adham first meets after stabbing Ataga Khan, but the Empress. Jodhaa may be a trained warrior, but with her bare hands, she is helpless against a deranged murderer wielding a sword. He chases her through the women’s palace, sending maids screaming as they weave through pillars and behind curtains. He manages to slash her three times: once in her thigh, once across the back, and once across her hands when he finally has her on the ground, cowering before him, and she tries to shield herself. Only her sharp reflexes, born of sparring matches with Sujamal, save her from being cut in more lethal areas before Jalal storms in and takes control of the situation.

Once the guards have hold of the traitor Khan, Neelakshi and Madhavi rush forward, binding her wounds with strips of cloth and shouting orders for a doctor. Jodhaa is dazed and gasping in pain, but she is still able to hear her husband roaring for his brother to be thrown off the roof again and again, the thumps and the wails of pain, until they stop. An ominous silence fills the women’s palace, broken only when her husband quietly asks to enter.

Jodhaa lies on the bed in an awkward position; neither her back nor her left leg can abide any weight, so she rests on her right side as she is bandaged. She is aware of her husband’s presence in the room, aware she should feel embarrassed that her shawl has been discarded and her skirt is hiked up to her waist in order to treat her injuries, but she cannot care. Now that the rush of the moment has faded, there is only disbelief and pain.

Out of propriety, the physician stands behind a curtain, while issuing orders to her ladies. “Your Majesty will be fine. I advise a few weeks of bedrest, but the injuries, Allah be praised, are not fatal and will heal in time,” he says when Jodhaa has been bandaged up.

Her maids help her strip off the blood-soaked orange cloth, exchanging it for a clean sari. Once there is nothing more to be done, she sits upon the edge of her bed, eyes shut, ignoring the fiery ache of her wounds, her churning stomach. Forget the sight of her blood and the Prime Minister’s blood glinting upon that sword, the cold metal biting into her skin, the sheer bloodlust in her foster brother-in-law’s eyes as he loomed over her… forget the rage and grief that colored her husband’s eyes as he dragged him off of her, the clangs of sword blades, the crush of bones as they met the ground.

It is too much. Jodhaa’s stomach fails her, and she pitches forward, vomiting. Strong hands grab her shoulders and position her so that she does not splatter herself or the bed with sick. Her husband holds her until she is shivering and her stomach is empty. Then he hoists her up, ever mindful of her injuries, and guides her outside to the terrace where the breeze is blowing while her maids clean up the mess. Even in her numb state, she appreciates that he took her to the other end of the palace, away from where a certain broken corpse still lingers.

The spring day is fair, disregarding all else, and a fine perfume of jasmine flowers fills the air. Jodhaa breathes it in once, twice, five times before something like acceptance settles in her soul. Her husband lets her go, as though he has finally realized how much contact has passed between them. Without looking at him, she settles back into his embrace, her back against his chest, his chin grazing the top of her head. His arms snake around her, hesitantly, then more firmly, though still gentle.

From this position, Jodhaa realizes how much he is shaking, for the first time. She would wrap his hand in hers, but her bandaged paw does not allow for that. Instead she settles more firmly in his arms, tucking her head into the crook of his neck so that he may nuzzle it with his own.

* * *

“You have done well,” is all Maham Anga says when Jalal kneels at her feet that night, her voice hoarse with tears. What else can she say? Her son is dead, at her other son’s hands, and there is nothing she can do about it, no argument she can make against what was cruel, pure justice.

Under other circumstances, she might have taken the opportunity to open his eyes to Jodhaa’s potential treachery, but she knows she cannot attempt that now. The Rajput girl’s near brush with death has awakened a new tenderness in Jalal, made him doubly protective of her, as if he wasn’t already devoted to her before, and he will not listen to a word against her now. Even one from his Badi Ami, she knows him well enough for that.

And perhaps there is no need for Maham Anga to do so now. Hopefully Jodhaa has learned a lesson about what happens if she tries to meddle with the Mughal court, she will set aside her foolish pride, and there will be no need for Maham Anga to intervene. Nearly being stabbed to death has a way of sticking in the mind, after all.

“You have done well,” she whispers again, and she is not sure which son she is saying it to.

* * *

Jodhaa’s letter still reaches Sujamal, having already been sent. He still writes back to her, swearing to carry out his brotherly duty at once. Under other circumstances, she might have met him in secret, hoping to see him in person after so long, but she is too weak to move more than a few steps without assistance, much less sneak out of the palace. Besides, she is too terrified of what might happen if another Rajput enters Agra; even if her husband spares him, who knows how many enemies are still lurking within the court?

So she writes back, telling him under no circumstances should he approach the Red Fort, and under no circumstances will she abandon her marriage. Sujamal is perplexed when he reads the missive, of how his sister has not been converted and how the Emperor has defended her at every turn, but he respects her wishes and does not come.

That day in May, terrible as it was, marks the beginning of something new between Jodhaa and Jalal. There is still so much distance between them, but it is somehow less intimidating, more bridgeable. He seeks her out more often, not merely to offer her gifts but to check how she is recuperating. In turn, she seeks him out, inquiring as to how he is doing, ensuring he does not drown in his grief. Things settle back into an equilibrium, as the days become weeks and then months, but neither of them are the same. He is older, somehow, more weighed down, while she is more cautious than before.

Forty days after Ataga’s and Adham’s deaths, fate strikes another blow when Maham Anga dies too, grief having literally strangled the life out of her. She is there as the woman breathes her last, their one-time enmity somehow forgotten in light of everything else, there for Jalal to rest his head on her shoulder as he weeps, there to close the woman’s eyes with her own hands. Jodhaa grieves for her husband having lost his closest confidante and advisor, but is surprised when he looks at her with a tremulous smile and says that while Allah might have called Badi Ami back to him, he still has another intelligent, kind, and loyal woman at his side.

“You might think so,” she says finally, when she finds her voice. “But will your court do the same?”

“Anyone who does not already think so is a fool,” he says sharply, to which Jodhaa glances down to the scars on her hands, still red and angry.

Another pair fills her vision, wrapping her own in them. “And if there are those who still do not,” her husband murmurs, “then we will work together to change their minds.”

She meets his gaze, green and warm, and feels the grip of his hands around hers, and wonders how she ever contemplated swallowing poison.

* * *

There comes a time when they are able to smile, if not laugh, about that day, and one afternoon, she says lightly that if she had had a sword, she would not have needed her husband’s intervention. He of course cannot tolerate such an insult to his pride as a man, and demands to see her skill with a sword. Her hands have recovered to the point that she can wield a scimitar, and so she agrees.

They spend the whole day out on the terrace, as he observes her technique, and finally admits that she is certainly capable, even if there are gaps in her skill. “As is natural,” he quickly explains when she glares mockingly at him. “You’ve got a natural talent for the blade, but it needs to be cultivated, and I don’t suppose you were ever granted the privilege of serious lessons.”

“I was not,” she admits. “Any instruction I received was purely recreational, and no one ever really expected me to have to wield a blade.”

“Who taught you?” he asks, curious. “Surely they saw how capable you were, and knew you deserved more.”

“My brother Sujamal,” she says after a few moments, but he knows her well enough by now to hear the tremor, to sense the painful undercurrent to that name. She intends to leave it at that, but her husband is too canny to let it go, and gently, he coaxes it out of her: her cousin, who was her companion and champion, whom she looked up to as an elder brother, who was fated to be the Crown Prince until her father abruptly conferred the throne onto his own son. Her brother, who now travels without kingdom or home, and how she fears what could become of him and her family.

“Surely if he taught you so well, your brother deserves much more than to be a fugitive from his own kingdom,” her husband muses, looking out over the courtyard with a distant look in his eye.

Jodhaa’s head jerks up. “You mean you would…”

“Appoint him Crown Prince? Why not? It is his rightful place, and besides, the safest way to prevent discord.”

Jodhaa cannot breathe for a second. Sujamal, made the next King of Amer, without any friction or backstabbing… It is too good to be true.

“My father and Bhagwan Das may not approve,” she finally offers.

“It is his right,” he pronounces. “And I am sure they would not object to a recommendation from their Emperor.”

A recommendation from an emperor is as good as an order, Jodhaa knows, but if she can do this for Sujamal… then it will be well worth whatever storms she has to weather from her family.

“No,” she says finally, half in wonder. “They won’t.”

* * *

They do object, but they are wise enough to do it in private, far away from the Emperor’s ears. Jodhaa brooks no protests, however, and she is the one to write to Sujamal to let him know that he can come out of hiding, and that his rights have been restored to him. _I understand now why you refused to leave this marriage when I offered you the choice, and I see what you mean when you say he is not a bad man,_ Sujamal writes in one letter, _but what is this about him challenging me to a sword match?!_

 _The Rajput honor depends upon it,_ Jodhaa writes in her chamber, while her husband is nearly convulsing with laughter. _If you do not answer his call, he may withdraw his recommendation of you for Amer Yuvraj, and I will not speak for you if you turn tail like a coward._

“He will answer it,” Jodhaa says. “He won’t run away from this, I know him well.”

“He had better not,” he chuckles. “I would not appoint a ruler to one of my domains without witnessing his abilities firsthand. Besides, I would see for myself the man who taught the Empress of Hindustan. Surely such a man must be as remarkable as, if not more so, as the woman herself.”

Jodhaa rolls her eyes, but inside she is glowing.

* * *

Sujamal beats the Emperor, much to Jodhaa’s surprise; her brother has certainly been trained well, but her husband had received instruction in nothing but his whole childhood. Still, Sujamal apparently has a few tricks up his sleeve, or is simply lucky, and manages to disarm the Emperor. He accepts defeat gracefully enough, but still insists on another sparring match at another time.

It is Sujamal who mentions that there are those in Amer who grumble that he is their next ruler only because of the Mughal barbarian’s interference. The number of people who speak thus is very low, but still high enough to shake Jalal. It is Jodhaa who suggests to Sujamal that he go to Amer to speak with their people personally and dispel such rumors, and show that he is not just a Mughal lackey. It is Jalal who hears such a suggestion and wonders that if a King may take such a step, why should an Emperor not do the same?

It happens one evening in late summer, almost autumn, some time after he repeals the pilgrimage tax. He is in his chamber looking over documents when Jodhaa shows up as usual to go over them together. She stays for a while, like usual, but when they have finished, she asks him to come join her on the terrace. He obliges, thinking she wishes to take in one of the last warm sunsets of the year.

They stand together at the low balustrade, close enough to touch as they usually do, when Jodhaa slips her hand into his. He is mildly taken aback -- despite everything, she is not usually so forward-- but he does not question it. Then--

“I love you.”

He starts and turns around. She is still looking at the sunset, mantled in scarlet and gold, a similar fire burning in her eyes. Her grip on his hand tightens, and finally, he squeezes his hand in response.

Jalal tugs her gently so that she is facing him. She gazes down for a second, then looks up. He cups her face in both hands, guides her until she is mere inches away from him.

“And I love you.”

Her smile is every answer he’s ever needed.

No more words pass between them that evening, either on the terrace or later in her bedchambers. No more words are needed, when their actions will speak loudly enough for them. Outside, the sun glows, resplendent and vivid and flaming, until it sinks beneath the horizon.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Yaatra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311813) by [Silberias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias)




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